


Pietà

by saidith



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Mentions of Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season 3 compliant, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, author wants alucard to have something go right for once, hot nuns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25351036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saidith/pseuds/saidith
Summary: She came to him, hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. He recoiled from her, his carried sorrows a painful reminder of her kind.A nun arrives at Alucard's doorstep and asks for Trevor Belmont; unfortunately, she cannot leave until said Belmont shows.
Relationships: Alucard (Castlevania)/Reader, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 110





	1. Genesis

Alucard noticed it soon after waking.

Something was wandering closer to the castle - no, some _one_ , as the morning fog mottled the scent of aged parchment and incense and inkwells. At first he thought it might be dreamsleep playing tricks, the hope of a familiar pair awaiting his presence just outside the door; but, as he edged closer to the cracked windowpane adjacent to his bed, a chill passing through proved otherwise. 

It was a different sort of stench. 

An intruder.

He’d planned for this. The castle had warning; two, to be exact, staked at the entrance, and he’d lost count of how many days had passed since a soul braved past his bloody greeting. Was it to be another hermetic wanderer? A mercenary liquored with courage? No matter. Satiated curiosity never outweighed their own life.

Atop his tower, he watched someone emerge from the greenwood.

They moved like a phantom, shapeless by means of their cloak with a train of thick leather dragging behind. Bramble caught to it; still, the human kept forward as a piece of the fabric was ripped away. In the emerging light of daybreak, he could see the cover half-sullied with mud. The train had to have already been heavily frayed. 

Their hood lifted a tic, and they halted. Crows and flies left weltering hides on staves spiked into the ground, skulls holding fast with their jaws crooked to the side, as a couple limbs were suspended by ligaments, once stringy, toughened and baked in the sun. After a time he wasn’t much bothered by the deads’ fetor.

The intruder stared at them far longer than he.

Do not enter. 

Danger of death. 

Abandon all hope.

The human, draped all in black, practically glided past the dhampir’s threats. 

Hastily, he threw on simple linens and britches. What was this fool thinking? Their footfalls, light upon the stairway, approached the castle doors soon as he tramped into the foyer. If this human meant to ignore such blatant signs, so be it. Dead bodies could not hold a candle to monsters’ fright.

The door knocker rapped against iron. 

Then, silence.

Alucard waited. On the occasion an idiot didn’t attempt pushing their way past the castle’s resistance, boredom won out, or cowardice bettered them. He wondered which it’d be here and now. A midnight trip through the woods unattended wasn’t made out of sheer boredom. If they were weak of heart, would-

“Ser Belmont?” A voice, silvery. “Trevor Belmont?”

In an instant, he unfastened the locks and revealed himself. Even this close to the individual, he could not make out their form.

“Why are you here?” he answered.

“I have business with a ser Trevor Belmont.”

“You will not find him here.”

The person shrugged back their hood. A black veil descended over a white crown band and matching underveil like petals of a rose, untouched. The snow-white coif swathed her face, neck, and chest, leaving an expression less prettied by her asymmetrical smile. He thought this guise was by no means an improvement.

The nun said, “By order of the Church, the Belmont family’s ex-communication has been annulled. I’ve come to give him our appreciation.”

A lot of good that would do for a crumbling estate with it’s bricks burnt into the ground; but, the church liked their words. They were competent with little else. 

“And,” she continued, summoning a drawstring pouch, “an offer, if he’d be so kind.” The weight in her palm chinkled with coin. 

He was unswayed. “Trevor Belmont has been gone for months. Where he is now, I cannot say.”

“Ah. Pity.” While pocketing the change, her eyes wandered past his shoulders. Right away, he found the woman's idle curiosity irksome, as she peered into the quaint section of the castle’s foyer. Perhaps were it lit, she’d find the grandeur unfathomable. To him, it was barren. A void.

Alucard retreated back into his fortress. “Yes. A pity.”

A hand shot out before the doors shut completely; he’d just about crushed her knuckles in the unexpectedness. “Allow me refuge for a time, if you would. The closest inn is near a day’s travel and the trip has left me weak.”

“No.”

“Please, sir, if it’s payment you require I have-”

“Not at all,” he grunted, “Leave.” 

Attempting to cease any further advances, he shoved her hand off the door and a razor-sharp pain suddenly ripped up the length of his arm. A yell escaped him, and as he clutched his elbow and blinked through red bleeding into his vision, a steaming welt prized his palm. From fingertip to base the misshapen streak leered at him, gloating with skin soon ready to blister. His thumb spasmed and it sent another shot of heat to his nerves.

The nun reared back just as Alucard pushed towards her. The panic lit in her eyes only fanned his rage, for this human knew nothing of terror, nothing of horror, nothing of dread that this hour could be her last. Not yet. 

Her offending forearm barred him from dominating over her; nonetheless, his hiss was hot at the edge of her arm. Yanking at the sleeve, she revealed chains of silver branching up her skin, the plated links bound like twine on a spool. Pure sterling gleamed back at him; for a moment, he caught the reflection of his fangs, which were longer than he remembered. The sight pulled him back a degree.

“Enough!” she commanded, breathless. “Restrain thyself. It was your own groping which provoked injury. See? I don’t wish to harm you.” Her racing heartbeat spoke of fear, but with brows drawn together and pupils fiercely dilated, she resembled nothing of the sort. 

The woman was caged with a weapon, and she kept her arm still.

Alucard felt his canines receding. Unhurriedly. “Does your vow of poverty pertain only to gold? What sort of nun wears silver finery?”

“The sort tasked to cover half of Wallachia in order to find ser Belmont. Alone.”

The realization expelled guilt, irritant in the pit of his stomach.

With careful movements, she lowered the barrier between them and sheathed her adornments. Slivers jutting from the chain links snatched at fabric sliding down. Her arm vanished into a shapeless cloak once more. 

“I understand this is not the Belmont Estate,” she huffed, “but directions fare easier for commonfolk with ‘Dracula’s fortress, the one you can spot from a hundred leagues away.’ An exaggeration, yes. But if I’m not welcome, I will not impede. At the very least, I’ll find a spot to sit down for a spell near the estate’s ruins. Will that do?”

“And then what? A walking weapon rests closer to my castle than I’d prefer. Trevor Belmont may not ever return here.” Even to him, the words stung.

“Be that as it may, I cannot return empty-handed. My assignment bids me here until the harvest moon in six months time. Only then will I be allowed to go back to my convent. Which, I’ll add, is why I’d like to stay alive rather than cross you.”

How long had she been traveling, he wondered. Perhaps soon after the church curiously revoked Belmont's name from their list of the disgraced. The question of what led to the change of heart danced on his lips, but she was a woman beside herself and he was the apparent malefactor, so he didn’t imagine it turning out well for him, notwithstanding she was the one who stuck her hand into the damn door.

The nun’s earlier prying produced an imagining wherein the woman shifted rubble between her toes, triggering a landslide of loose bricks from the estate’s walls, crushing her instantly. Then, in a different setting, a demon snuck up from behind, raised a sword, and in one fell swipe, removed the head off her shoulders. All the silver in the world couldn’t save her from sticking her nose where it didn’t belong and subsequently dying because of it.

Truly, if he couldn’t discern her whereabouts, her quest would be for naught anyway. 

If he didn’t know where she was.

“If I show you decent shelter for the day,” he said, “will you stay without tearing the place apart?”

“I am a nun, not a toddler.”

“I beg to differ.”

She threw up her hands. “A promise. I will leave the place exactly as I found it.” 

A cursory answer, but it would do for one day. 

Yes. He could do just one day. 

With a nod, he gestured for her to come. She fell into step quickly, and it was a span into the hike before the nun hesitated again. 

“I beg pardon as the even the simplest manners are lost on me. What is your name?”

He stopped. “The people call me Alucard.”

A small hum reverberated on her lips, like a memory was being jogged. “I thank thee, Alucard, for this favor.”

As morn set asunder mists clinging to the surrounding grass, and consigned thicker fog into the deep greenwood where sunlight did not touch, Alucard and the nun followed a path situated to the east; ironically, she was acting the part of entourage. For a half-vampire, of all things. He did not share this sentiment, but distancing herself a few paces back, she asked him what was so funny. 

Greys overspreading half the sky were repelled by light, burnt orange melting with yellows of pale variants, as the sun crept over the hour. Thankfully, the woman was silent. At the halfway point, he snuck a look over his shoulder and took notice of the cause - she held a tome bound in embroidered material, the swirls of needlework depicting robed men surrounding a woman with child, holding their offerings to her, as little lambs danced along the book’s lining. Its flower-patterned spine was so blemished the threads appeared colourless. Quiet was her reading work; she caught him spying quick enough, though she didn’t say if she minded or not.

Past the stretching grove of oak trees, he led her to a giant hole eating up the ground and ushered the woman onto a connecting platform.

As he futzed around with the pulley device affixed to the rear, he heard the woman ask, “All the way down here, is it? In this….pit. With the entrance the same as the exit.”

She leaned against the wooden railing, her veil dipping over one shoulder. 

“I’ll return before nightfall,” Alucard said. He wanted her out of the forest while he combed through it for supplies and foodstuffs he’d need for himself in hopes of depreciating the chances of running into her. These next few months would be challenging indeed.

“Suppose there’s no use in saying I’ll hold you to that.” Her laugh was short. “Though it’s fair enough. Taking my hand in yours did almost kill you.”

Oh, it most certainly had _not_ \- that was what he wished to say, but when her gaze met his and a smile eased her lips, the words did not come. He finished unhooking the rope and began to ease the driver into a steady descent. Now was her last chance to dip out, and that was precisely what he relayed.

The nun answered, “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

Metal rings grated together inside the pulley as the platform descended, lower and lower, into the depths of Belmont Hold’s underground library. The woman scanned what stately paintings were left askew upon the walls. They passed a clawmark curving up the side and her face lost a bit of colour.

The rickety hoist screeched to a halt, stuttered, then jostled upon impact with groundfloor. Dirt and rust muddied the air of the underground. His mind pulled at the last time he’d journeyed to the library - a sister and brother, yawning, soon wide-eyed with excitement at the prospect of technique and magic and protection - but he walled off that line of thinking promptly. The ache of those memories dulled with each passing month, but here at the bottom of the Hold, the pain felt days old. 

Stepping into the repository, Alucard pressed an alloy pedal next to the doorway, and the expanse sconced with wrought iron lanterns brightened assuden; of the lanterns still standing after the monsters attacked, globes of stained glass poured rich blues across the tile, the spherical glare wavering if the electrical currents sourced with a thin wire warbled loudly. Unlike the underground area exposed to outside influences, the Belmont library smelled a decaying must of nostalgia. Waves of century-old oaken bookshelves and leather textbooks with inlays slathered in oils and display cases sealed by olden wax and hickory staircases spiraling down overwhelmed him with vellichor. From the third story, Alucard spotted a pile of books strewn carelessly over a bench abutting the rightmost shelves on the first level. Sypha’s doing.

The nun snapped him from reverie. “Mine eyes deceive me. They must.”

She advanced like a lamb getting used to its legs as she drank in the sight. Confusion twisted the lines in her forehead, at first, until something stranger replaced that, and both hands came to rest at the white starch round her temple. When she spoke, she did not face Alucard. “Thy favor…. hospitality.….I….” She took a moment to clear her throat. “Thank you. Your kindness humbles me”

On account of the claw marks generously decorating the enclosure, he considered it a decency at best. He looked at the snapped portions of half-bridges hanging pathetically from the second and third level; at worst, this place was a drunkard’s death wish. 

“I’ll come back before nightfall,” he repeated. “Befoul this place, and I will know.”

“Of course.”

Whether she stayed one night or one hundred and eighty, the notion was no less aggravating; but, she was a nun. For how far the Church of Wallachia’s corruption reached, Alucard had yet to come across an evil holy woman of the church. Part of him believed her intelligent enough to understand what would happen if she messed with the hold’s library. A smaller part considered her reputable - after all, she took vows. Nun-ly ones.

“Alucard, I apologize for our meeting getting off on the wrong foot. If there is anything I can do to repay your grace, you need only ask.”

When she turned, hands clasped over her heart, the glossy look arrested him. The nun extended a slight bow. It dawned on him - she seemed genuinely glad.

As the young woman headed for the center-most stairwell, he blurted out, “Your name.”

Unsurprisingly, she gave him a curious once-over. 

“What is your name,” he asked, properly.

“For now, Reverend Mother.” A small dimple decorated her chin when she smiled. “Or simply Reverend. Whichever you prefer.”

In the process of working the underground hold’s makeshift lift, the pulley screeching to life with each gather and tug of the rope, Alucard felt mid-morning rays warm on his cheeks. Finches flitted throughout the grove, their aria trilled like a warning, _chreEEE-erp erp erp_ , _chreEEE-erp erp erp_. The sights, the sounds - all were obscured by one phrase, ceaseless in his mind.

Whichever he preferred.


	2. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...and give relief to you who are troubled, and to us as well. This will happen when the Lord Jesus is revealed from heaven in blazing fire with his powerful angels." (2 Thessalonians 1:7)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: death, descriptive violence, & lots of god talk from a nun

_In the cathedral’s burning spire, a church bell tolled._

  
  


_Once._

  
  


_Flames burst through the stained windows in a blazing onslaught of white; first the heaven and earth, then the garden, the tree branched to its roots, and finally, God, His shards of glass skewing nearby clergypersons fleeing the church. Some pieces audibly shunk'd when they impaled the holy men; though, if it stuck through the head, they screamed less._

_An inferno devoured the house of God._

  
  


_Twice._

  
  


_“The two of you, gather what you can from the storehouse. Sister Mariana, lead the children to safety. I will find the bishop and Reverend Mother.”_

_“Demons taint the Lord’s home. Careful, for they are everywhere.”_

_“Judgement Day is upon us.”_

  
  


_Thrice._

  
  


_A fiendish bat was the first to attack. It was as large as three men stacked one on top of the other, and its wings spread o’er her like the corpus affixed to the lady chapel’s crucifix. When the devil shrieked, its jowls set hell-fire loose._

_“To thee, O God, I call and speak. Turn not Thy face away from me; withdraw not Thy consolation, lest my soul become an adversary. Allow me, O Lord, to do Thy will.”_

_In the bath of Satan’s fire, she walked. She reached for the beast, a gilded rosary with a blade pointed out her grasp._

_“Strengthen us by Thy power that our sorrow may be turned into joy, and we may continually glorify Thy holy name.”_

_The tip drove into its flesh, and the monster’s body detonated._

  
  


_Four times._

  
  


_The bishop, flowered in golden vestments clean of gore, and Reverend Mother, greys flying out her habit, were backed against the chancel altar, the alabaster bedecked with Sister Clara’s craftsmanship: a tapestry laved in royal blue, the colour a stark contrast to the six red wings enfolding an angelic being whose eyes were missing._

_A hulking demon took another step towards the archway uncorrupted by fire._

_“Begone, servant of Lucifer!” she commanded._

_Seven eyes void of white locked onto her. Slobber dripped through gaps where its lips weren’t sewn shut and sunk into the floorboards. It grinned._

_“Traitor!” said Reverend Mother._

_“Traitor!” agreed the bishop._

_They were looking directly at her._

_The demon laughed and drowned the overseers’ screams in a lake of fire._

  
  


_Five times._

  
  


_She chorused with cherubim and devils alike, fire burning all around them._

_“You are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you are the traitors, you the traitors, you are the traitors,_

_**YOU ARE THE TRAITORS OF GOD.** ”_

  
  
  


She woke gasping for air. 

_Smoke in your lungs_ , her mind screamed, _where are the children, where is everyone_ , _get them out, out_!

The last woolen patch of a quilt slithered from her torso and pooled onto the floor. A floor, she realized, not at all on fire, nor consisting of floorboards stretched to the opposite side of the parish. The stonework mirrored dark beneath the eyes, gaunt cheekbones, poxed scars dotting the skin, laugh lines that were once less prominent - her; or, a reflection vaguely resembling the nun who’d fought to escape the church crumbling all around her.

A dream. 

She breathed deep, soothing the heart racing to burst. 

It was a nightmare. Nothing more.

When was the last time she’d dreamt of that night? Ages, she reckoned. After monsters infiltrated the Holy Triune Cathedral, two months passed before the mind welcomed dreamless sleep; a luxury, she knew it to be, as a handful of the priory’s sisters and orphans recurrently bestired the others in the dead of night with blood-curdling screams, calling for God, for His release. 

But this was not the priory and this was not the church. 

Here was the Belmont Hold, however less reassuring that may be.

Her legs swung over a wooden edge. Hollowed into a cozy intersection of the library, she’d found a reading nook crowded with tufted pillows and the like. The lights surrounding were too bright for sleep; thankfully, the velvety throw she plopped on her head did an excellent job of shutting that out. What wasn’t there before, she plucked off the ground. The blanket latticed with dark fluff was a cloud in her hands. 

She brushed it against her cheek. “And where did you come from?” 

Stranger yet, bordering the rucksack she’d tossed in the mess of throwing off soiled cloak and veil, the nun spotted another gift - a woven creel bearing one loaf of bread. 

As she rose, her hands stretched up and her back answered with a delightful pop, though so much of her ached. In the slim possibility she’d find Trevor Belmont, correct the church’s grievances with a polite attitude and thirty pieces, and score a place to sleep that wasn’t made of mud, she pursued the high spire of Dracula’s castle through till morning, not once breaking line of sight so she might set up tent; and Jesus, Mary and Joseph, was every muscle paying for it.

Tucked underneath the bread was a torn parchment piece with cursive impressed prettily upon it.

‘I’ll return to you tomorrow’

She blinked. Reading the words over sent a queer feeling in her chest.

Alucard….?

Wait, how long had she been unconscious? 

The young woman didn’t bother getting the coif and card on her head. Hurrying up the spiral staircase and nudging the front door just a tick, a night sky lent itself to her, half its stars dissolved. A glow, like rust blighting a knight’s sword, brewed in the curtain of twilight. Sunrise was nearing and Alucard would arrive soon. His name imparted a warm feeling, being the only culprit to have left her bread and blanket, but unease settled just as well. The time for scrutiny over the vampire’s altruism was lost, for there was work to do. Much, much work had yet to be done. 

Racing back to the tanned knapsack beside her sleeping nook, the nun dug through dried rations tied in bundles and a spare habit undoubtedly wrinkled to find, at the very bottom, a notebook. Thank the Lord above she’d stumbled into a library; she came about an inkpot and quill without difficulty. 

Sitting at a desk, she began to write.

  
  


_To our miraculous Sister, who rose by His grace to live and serve, Christina -_

  
  


_On this day I write, the fifth of September in the year of our Lord 1476, I pray for thee and thy charges, thy health and thy goodness and thy sanity, for God only knows the way of lively youth and you are but one woman. In hardship, remember Thou art the childrens hope and refuge in the days of our trouble, and remember our prayers, for this calling is good and gracious, and so too art Thou Sister Christina. How goes the everyday? Have our seven Sisters reached their townships? I beseech you meekly, if their letters arrive to the priory say I am praying for their safety as well. Our quest is great and nigh impossible, but I have faith in our success. Pardons I cannot say where I am, but I have arrived at the destination  and bring this:_

_The warrior is alive in Wallachia. The Devil has perished, and his son claims his castle._

_Pray the news I deliver at the time of your reply is of service to our cause. This letter shall disembark from West Hyfast, send thy correspondence there._

  
  


_Your faithful, evermore, Reverend Mother [Name]_


	3. Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And [the devil and his angels] will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life." (Matthew 25:46)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to depression, past trauma from seasons 1-3, and sunday school lessons

One day. 

In just twelve hours, he would be rid of her.

Yet when he happened upon the nun sprawled in the reading nook, veiled with a decorative cushion, and dead-asleep, a day subsequently turned into a day plus a night. 

He blamed his own free giving. With how close she was to the stairway and how carelessly her possessions scattered the floor, suffice it to say any ulterior motive she might’ve carried was wiped out by exhaustion. Nothing worth investigating poked out her knapsack, and given her choice in accessory, he was not about to dig through it and repeat this morning’s mistake. The inflammation, once fire on his palm, had begun to recede. 

Uncloaked, the young woman’s habit showed modest. Thick, pleated black swallowed Reverend Mother and poured off the edge, surrendering an outline of one leg propped over the other in comfortable sleep. A shame, he thought, that mud had eaten holes through the pretty fabric petting the ground. 

What puzzled him most were the boots peeking from her skirt, their soles muck-crusted and ten steps away from disintegrating. From where had they wandered? A trip from West Hyfast, the village neighboring at a snug thirty miles, wouldn’t dirty an individual’s clothes to this degree, especially not a holy woman, her bases so absurdly covered that even a forest dense with midnight did nothing to discourage her. Unless the silver she wore, the pack she carried, and the habit’s layers weighed over her were weightless, this Reverend possessed a notable amount of physical strength. She’d come prepared, and for Trevor of all things. Peculiar, then, she’d not even managed a blanket.

On an arcing chaise lounge one floor down, its hands of velvety chartreuse beckoning lay, Alucard snatched from it a quilt. Careful was he in spreading the thing so as not to disturb her. The nun sighed contentedly and tucked crimson fluff beneath her chin. For a woman of the Lord trapped in by a vampire, Reverend Mother dozed without trouble. How bizarre this woman was. 

Bizarre, his mind echoed, as he drew from his satchel a crisp loaf of bread, two days baked, and left it with her written notice.

When the half-vampire reappeared the next day, the nun was fitted the same as before, short of the cloak’s hood pulled over, and God, had sleep refreshed her as good as morning seemed to. She’d not stopped talking.

“Miraculous is He, shepherding me to such a considerate host,” she said like sundry thanks was music to his ears over the pulley’s screams. “I know a few innkeepers who’d favor learning from thee. Perhaps I will return to them with the wonderful news so I may watch their flea-infested, urine-stained blankets burn bright.”

“Yes. And when would that be?”

“Pardons?”

Each tug of the rope, each insufferable pull to rise, irritation filled hot inside him. “Your sermon. When will the common folk be obliged to hear your wonderous anecdote about the nun who broke bread with an abomination of God?” 

She bubbled with laughter, as though that were an appropriate response. 

“Is that what ails you?” Reverend Mother wiped away a fake tear. “Abomination of God. I’ve heard far worse from our mother superiors, but those nuns, bless them, took their daftness to the grave. I did not accept bread from demons. I accepted bread from Alucard. Methinks, however, my leave of absence from the convent troubles thee. The length of my stay, specifically. Yes?”

Oh, but she was astute.

Without an answer, she explained, “I spoke true the day before. To West Hyfast I will retreat, nigh briefly. My sisters bid me here until Ser Belmont returns, lest I see the harvest moon before such a time, and ‘ _here_ ’ is not relative. Here I will reside, at the ruins of Belmont Manor.”

The lift jerked into place atop the gaping hole. He made quick work of rolling the ends of heavy braiding, looping the mess together like a maze only his nimble fingers knew; once secured, he dropped the knotted tangle and it gave a loud thud upon impact. The nun jumped.

Alucard walked and didn’t care to see if she followed. “For what purpose? So you might freeze to death when winter comes? To spy on the vampire who lives in Dracula’s castle? A woman of the church sits outside my doorstep, and for half a year, she tells me.”

“Not the doorstep, good ser. Surely it’ll be a nice, long walk.”

“Sorry, for a moment there I almost mistook you for a court jester; though, your jokes are abhorrent.”

“Better to be a jester than an ill-mannered vampire.”

His head was boiling over, and with inhuman speed, he blinked out of reality and suddenly, the woman appeared a kitten to him, cowering beneath the predator, as his lips curled back to reveal - _this, what I am, have you forgotten? -_ needling teeth gleaming down. 

“You cannot stay here.” He growled. “You cannot stay at Belmont Hold.”

Did she mean to play a game? Tease the beast and see what snaps the hand - nothing she’d like, nothing her kind ever liked, for pain was synonymous to death for human beings; understandably so, because what have they but chains binding them to mortality? Pain was their folly. Humans were the same as animals, resisting and fighting with every ounce of strength, even when they’d been backed into a corner, and for what? They dreaded experiencing physical turmoil, but in doing so, prolonged it. And dread made men stupid. 

At a time, fright was easy to spot on a person, their faces a colorful canvas and Alucard the critic. He’d start with the obvious: clear beads splashed across their forehead, shoulders brushing up as they tensed, lines fuzzing up when they started to tremble. Analysis only proved difficult when other emotions curtained their fear. Impatience and insolence hid Trevor Belmont’s, enthusiasm hid Sypha’s, but they were his friends, and friends recognized these things. He saw fear in opacity of every kind, until the twins. Theirs grew translucent in his care; an oversight on his part. Sumi and Taka were motivated by fear. They had learned to fashion poison from paints.

Was he to believe an agent of the church had nothing to hide? Might her God miraculously permit the mortal sin of murder? Painted faces could not be trusted, not even ones swathed in holy cloth; and still, he searched her face for a sign of the poison. 

A dead woman’s visage stared back. Passionless. Undeterred. 

It was like she was looking directly into him.

The quietness in Reverend Mother’s voice kept Alucard silent. “Please. Forgive me. Accept me in restraints, accept me within boundary; accept me with knowledge of my whereabouts, my comings, my goings, and my wards. Ask of me, and I shall answer anything within my power….. But, in truth, I ask too much of thee. This I know.

“I am Reverend Mother to Sister Mariana, Sister Galea, Sister Rhys, Sister Ursula, Sister Stefania, Sister January, Sister Brydget, and Sister Christina. Seven months ago, demons invaded our parish in Campulung, and we are it's last survivors. Our priory is now an empty building on the border, Sister Christina and her four orphaned charges keeping to it. There is nowhere left to run to. My sisters and I, we’ve no other options, and I’ve no doubt Trevor Belmont makes his own peace with God, but I’ve come to atone for the injustices committed by the Church of Wallachia against him, against the Belmont family, so we might pay him to help our sisters. I come because the rest of us are dead.”

Slowly, slowly, kitten waiting on the wolf, the nun reached for something in her cloak and submitted a crumpled thing to him - a letter, unsealed. Her hands brushed light over his as she bid him read it, and he began to, skimming the lines, then back to her, as she went on. 

“I offer up to thee a promise, despite the cheap words men so often use. Never shall I trespass on thy castle grounds. Never shall I harm thee. I ask not for trust, but for acknowledgement. So, try. Try and kill me, but do so knowing there is nothing to gain.” 

Reverend Mother secured the letter one last time. “For now, I must take leave. I look ahead to your judgement. May it be fair and kind as thee.”

Up till her shadow dissolved with the horizon, Alucard did not move.

  
  


-

On the third day, Reverend Mother returned to cross the ruined gates of Belmont Hold. 

By the fourth day, beige canvas tented up in the northwestern corner of the wreckage, and on the fifth, following a mild thunderstorm, logs and driftwood gathered over the setup, swelling in mismatched rows until a makeshift tarp held together with moss stuck out the floor, shading her tent from sunset.

Days faded into routine, and to each their own. Alucard scarce left the castle before nightfall. On the occasion he’d chance upon her in the morn, she’d be gathering deep-blue bilberries fat for picking, or bent over a riverbed reaching for fish with the shittiest twig net he’d ever seen. Distance favored him; though, a time or two, he’d spied on the nun engaged in some type of strengthening routine wherein she’d pitch stones at an oak tree until cracks licked up the bark. Calm never left her, unless the _thWACK_ satisfied her; then, the nun might’ve smirked. Sometimes the drill went on for hours, or stopped in a few minutes if the rocks shattered upon impact, which had actually happened; afterwards, he never questioned her physical capability.

Whether she fancied a walk after prayer or carried garments prepared for wash, her path never led close to his castle. From his window, her nightly campfire resembled a firefly, its dance a fervent glow that dipped and swayed as the moon began to climb. Prayers held the nun’s attention until the fire was practically snubbing itself out; assuming it was prayer, of course.

Alucard hadn’t approached Reverend Mother since she’d returned.

There was no one good reason as to why. A nun wrapped in metal, the likes of which branded vampires like cattle, lived next door, and he’d yet to run into comfort’s arms at the thought; but after departing for West Hyfast, the nun’s confession hadn’t left him. The letter, too, though certain words stood out among the rest. Warrior of Wallachia - Trevor, most like, but the Devil and his son? Could her phrasing be more obvious?

And as another fishing attempt failed to reap her any number of trout, or served only to break the net she’d pieced back together far too many times, he wanted so badly to hate her. _She_ _burned you_ , he’d say to noone, _and barged into your home_. As she dusted away tears of frustration and left without food, he repeated the mantra til eve, til he dreamt of the nun in a jester’s hat, its bells tinkling as she cried. When finally he stirred, Alucard thought he might never hate anyone more than himself.

_“Please. Forgive me.”_

Her plea marred his line between caution and childishness, the one he’d been toeing since he put up those stakes in front of the castle. Perhaps Sumi and Taka were his pledge and constant reminder of what vulnerability wrought, and if he chose to be alone, the hurt would be less. So why, then, did a stranger’s words make his chest sink? Why had she exposed herself to a man who’d threatened her life?

One evening, while letting the dinner plates soak, a reflection leered at him from the kitchen basin’s water. What made his mother beautiful, what she’d granted her son, the golden curls and innocently bright eyes, were dull with murk and floating grits of breadcrumbs. Hollows etched the bones in his face. And, transfixed by the empty glare peering up at him, the chasm began to feel all too familiar. Regret, mourning, affliction - he’d pulled the emotions from his father once upon a time, as the vampire was too blinded by them to understand the severity of his actions. Dracula was once consumed by the chasm of these empty feelings to justify genocide.

And now, from a basin’s dirty water, the chasm was staring back.

_“May it be fair and kind as thee.”_

Her words relentlessly echoed in his head.

Did she really believe him to be fair and kind?

A smaller voice asked in the back of his mind - could such a thing ever be true?

Alucard sought out Reverend Mother before September’s end. He found her knee-deep in some brook, a babbling blue-green impressed six feet into the dirt, with mud caked up to her knees. One hand had her skirt bunched at the hip, while the other secured a rounded fishnet made of flaxen grass; this particular mesh was less pitiful than its twiggy predecessor. A small fish leapt up and out of the stream, and she made a go at it with a wide scoop. Her catch was confident; the too-large spaces in her net, however, were not, and the slippery thing wiggled past her in a wink. Had the nun’s muttering been any louder, he might’ve made clear a string of curses befit for a sailor.

A black-feather raven took to the branch above him. The animal cawed in a manner similar to mock laughter, and she whipped around, taking note of the bird, and then the blonde.

A blush touched her. “God strike me down for asking, but how long hast thou been standing there?”

“Long enough to see Jesus does not help _all_ His fishermen.”

“Ah. Recounting the Lord’s mercy as told in the Gospel of Luke, I take it.” The woman reminded him of a wise, old crone deliberating on a subject with an elderly preacher’s amiability. Then, she waddled out of the stream like a duck shaking its tail feathers and all such seriousness flew out the window. “If memory serves, Jesus stood at the Lake of Gennesaret and called to a group of fishermen nearby. From in a boat, he taught them His lessons, and later invited Simon to let down their nets for catch. Of course, Simon and the fishermen hadn’t caught a thing all night. Nevertheless, Simon obeyed.”

Resting the net at her side, Reverend Mother washed her legs, starting at the crud ringing her ankles. She scrubbed so fiercely her skin turned raw; strangely, she was not bothered by it. “And when the men had done this, suddenly, they caught a magnificent amount of fish; so magnificent, in fact, their nets began to break and their boats began to sink. Simon wept at Jesus’ feet, for he was astonished, as were the other fishermen, with the catch they had taken. Jesus then said to Simon, ‘Do not be afraid; henceforth, you will be catching men.’ And He left with His new disciples.

“I imagine the Lord has taken to humoring the older disciples,” she joked, playing with the frayed ends of her grassy net, “as is His obligation. God must oft remind us His love and His patience are not unconditional.”

Quietly, Reverend Mother half-rose to bow from the waist. Her boots slipped cleanly on, and soon, she was collecting the fishing net and tan knapsack deflated over the ridge where the earth curved higher than the low water. “My apologies if I’ve encroached upon our agreement. I cannot see the castle from here, but yonder shall I fish from this day forth. I thank thee for a warning plain.”

_May it be fair and kind as thee._

Alucard took a step towards her. “There is a fishing weir a mile north of your tent. It’s well hidden, but given the day, you’ll follow the path paved in burnt stones and find it easily enough. The trap should have plenty of fish caught in it by now. Best bring an empty bag.”

The words registered about as quickly as he chanced expect. She blinked, down at the net, then lamely at him. 

“Unless you prefer your God’s humor,” he said.

“N-no, I suppose I-” she started, incredulous. “I simply…. What?”

“That paltry arts and crafts project you call a fishing net couldn’t catch a fingerling. And if you starve, what of your sisters? What of Trevor Belmont? Considering how far the weir is, I’ve no use for it at the present.”

Elation lit up her features. “Y-you would… That is to say, I-I’m….”

_May it be fair and kind as thee._

Those words… Reverend Mother was projecting onto him, wasn’t she? And where all of this was coming from, his sudden charity, his permissiveness, Alucard couldn’t ascertain; but, if she meant to stay, she’d sooner die wielding her shitty tools than live long enough to meet Trevor. To meet Sypha. The nun’s presence was no indication of their return, yet she was fated to remain near his home for that very reason. What kind of God relinquished a calling akin to a death wish? In such circumstances, the vampire _was_ fairer and kinder than He.

“The agreement stands. Stay away from the castle, as you are.” That much was doable, but in the internal chaos happening within Alucard’s mind, one concern trounced all others. “However, I’ve been meaning to inquire about the letter you sent to your convent. 

“The Devil and his son. You were referring to my father, Dracula, and myself. Tell me, exactly how ‘alright’ are you with sleeping so close-by to Satan’s manor? Does God not punish His women who make small talk with a monster?”

The nun’s shoulders tensed no more than a moment; then, they eased, as an expression settled in, one he could not read. The change unnerved him. He wondered if too much had been revealed but suppressed the desire to shy away. No, he was not being vulnerable. Humans forced him to be circumspect.

In a charming manner, the points of her lips quirked up. “Dracula was a monster. Alucard is not.”

“I am his son. What difference does it make?”

“As a woman of the cloth, and one of God’s ‘women,’ I am trained to spot these demonic beasts. The Devil and his horde are evil incarnate. The eternal fire they’ve crawled out of have blackened their hearts. They know not of what makes us human - compassion, mercy, kindness, and the like, hold no place in their shriveled hearts. They abandoned virtue in Hell.

“Dracula may have been a beast, but I named him Satan for sake of brevity. He was the Devil of Wallachia and her people. You… are the blood of his blood, certainly, but where doubt is innate within thee, I see belief. Where there is hate, I see love. Where despair, hope. And where darkness…” Nothing suggested she set out to lay a finger on him but he felt the need to back away. Warmth, a thing kindling in her gaze, overwhelmed him. “Light….

“The difference is staggering. Sired by a demonic beast, thou were. But a beast versed in empathy is no beast at all. A beast who is unequivocally kind-hearted is as human as the rest of us.” 

Reverend Mother endowed her final ‘thank thee’s’ and slipped into the wood, careful to traipse along the pathway infected with the creeping jenny’s zig-zagging tendrils of golden clovers. He swore the nun flashed him a smile before her form vanished into a copse of conifers. A raven cawed, safe within the crowning leaves of the walnut trees, and the vampire’s own sleek animal perched above him retorted. 

When the bird soared off, Alucard wished a pair of wings would stretch out his back and lacerate his shoulder blades so he, too, might fly away.


	4. False Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Be not a witness against your neighbor without cause...” (Proverbs 24:28)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of past physical abuse

“For thee, goodwoman, a bundle of bishopwart.”

The herbs wrapped in cheesecloth were seized from Reverend Mother. An elderly woman, no doubt a decade past her prime, regarded the blossoms dabbed in violet with one good eye, while the other, a mossy haze possessed by cataracts, moved aimlessly. Tiny bristled leaves tickled her nose as she sniffed. _Loudly_. The nun thought the gesture befitted a lazy oaf, not a wrinkly old lady.

“Hmph. Yes. Tis decent, at least,” she decided. The woman dragged a bony finger, hooked and gaudy with rusted accouterments, through the bundle. Pollen dotted her reddish-brown skin. “Alright. I suppose this will do.”

The woman vanished underneath the counter in search of something. Her sheer veil bobbed up, just a hint less noticeable than the other wares she’d laid out. The vending cart was a thicket of glass jars and tight-lipped flasks, stout and lank and overflowing with color: dandelion petals crushed ivory fresh, strips of meat dried into umber, batches of gemstones plucked from a rainbow, bubbling molasses thickened with soot, floating animal hooves nauseating their liquids, and vines of tanned garlic loop de looping off a high beam. A plethora of herbs hung dry from the cart’s striped awning. Mint, lemon balm, rosemary, and lavender mingled with the open marketplace air of West Hyfast; an improvement, the nun concluded, given the butcher and the cheese-maker yielded their carts to sunlight direct. But even better, were the blanched logs swathed by this cart’s underbelly to burn, their hue promised of pine. Oh, how she loved the smell of pine.

From behind the counter, the tinkling of glass vials sounded like delicate hand bells. The noise stirred up memories, bygone, of early afternoons spent in the convent. Choir rehearsal would run from noon to second bell, and God help the unpunctual, for the previous Reverend Mother took to a wrath which rivaled Hell’s. If they did not show to the smaller chapel by noon, sister, brother, and altar boy alike were treated to hand bell duty. For the next two hours, their wrists ought to move only when the music called for it. Any note misplaced, no matter how quiet, warranted a caning from the director, and her strike drew blood. Always.

The Reverend rubbed the scars lined up her knuckles.

Towards the end, she and the other ‘incorrigible’ sisters were called upon hand bell duty more often than not, despite their promptness. Sister Brydget once collapsed after a nasty hit behind the knee, and friars began popping out of the bass section to hold back an enraged Sister Mariana. All eight nuns received discipline. They copied scriptures until sundown, the Reverend Mother a hawk at her desk minding their every move. When they were let go for suppertime, the head nun grabbed her arm and breathed low in her ear, “I will find proof of thy deviltry. The bishop will see you heretics hanged.”

And find proof they did, an audience from within an inferno. The divine priesthood of Wallachia’s Church had perished. The heretic nuns, however, still lived. 

_God is faithful. He is protector of the just and retribution for the wicked. Never will you forget that, Reverend Mother, as you burn in Hell._

The old woman rose with a grunt. A small clay pot offered from her row of chipped and coppery rings. “Your healing salve, dear sister. Lather the affected area once per day and the scarring will fade before week’s end.”

“Even older scars?” the nun asked in earnest.

“Depends. A grizzled knight would be shit out of luck, but a young thing like you? I’d be pressed to speak ill of my product if any mark of yours didn’t fade away.” 

“My lady, thou art godsend.” 

“Missus Galenne, if you please.” Her grip was strong, yet gentle, as she closed Reverend Mother’s fingers over the pot. One ring’s insignia left an imprint - a circling, speckled dragon eating its own tail. “Bishopwart is always in need. If you want other medicines or potions, I’ll welcome another trade.”

“Perhaps on my next trip into town.” The salve tumbled into her belt’s satchel without trouble. “Bishopwort grows like weeds throughout my paths traveled.”

“You’re not of the local clergy?”

The lie came more naturally than it should have. “The Lord has called me to missionary work while our convent rebuilds. Many of His children have abandoned their faith; yet, they are not to blame, as demons and monsters ravage our country, our homes. I go where His prayers are needed most.”

Missus Galenne’s mismatched gaze narrowed, trying to discern what wasn’t there. She sniffed. “Uh-huh. Well, safe travels to you, sister.”

“I thank thee.” Reverend Mother bowed at the neck and took her exit. 

West Hyfast was not a lively town, nor was it quite serene. The narrow streets were crowded by shops with thatched roofs. Most were open to the public. In the mid-morning, shop hands arranged their stuffs beside the entrance, ranging from baked goods neatly arranged in baskets to footwear dangling from a pole by their drawstrings. For the few that were abandoned, holes brought hay down from the ceiling and wind blew through shattered window panes. But, like the sudden influx of guardsmen, and the huge stone wall surrounding the city that was constantly being fortified, nobody paid mind to it. Men along the cobbled streets looked typical as any other, some farmers carting fruits and vegetables, others in better clothes chattering with more stately fellows. Children played card games at the mouth of a connecting alleyway. A guard in black leathers and britches stained with food and drink flirted with a pretty maiden. 

They grew quiet as the nun passed by. 

Reverend Mother took offense, though she tried very hard not to. The people she spoke to were polite enough. Still, every visit was met with the same hush-hush attitude from the common folk. And for why? The township’s nuns, however few and far between, didn’t face scrutiny like she. What about her demanded caution? What made strangers wary of her?

 _Nothing_ , her instincts said, _and yet, everything._

Faster did she walk, and with a feigned smile. 

Stores drifted into towhomes framed by timber and stone. A bathhouse, large and hedged with bushes of peonies. A brothel, not quite as undisclosed as the lack of signage might suggest, if the feminine torso pressed against the second-story window gave any hint. An inn, a place called the Naked Serpent (aptly down the road from the brothel, but a different place entirely). The signpost included a snake eerily shaded in red and black. In the breeze, the snake waved at her. 

Reverend Mother knew of this tavern. 

After stringing together half-assed directions from towns and villages untouched by demons, the search for Belmont Hold led her to West Hyfast. Pride took her, given the quest went on less than a month; but, as He did, God humbled her by offing her only means of transport - upon waking, her horse ran off suddenly and without a trace. Although deserved, she huffed angrily through prayer thereafter. 

She reached the Naked Serpent before eve. Its patrons were as smooth as the liquor they’d imbibed; a cordial laugh, an appropriate nod here and there, and the men were all but bragging about how close they’d gotten to Dracula’s Castle before the night was spent. The tavern’s owner, a sprightly young woman who called herself Ruth, with curly locks as bright red as she, insisted the nun stay free of charge. And she was not the type of woman to settle. 

“Bad business? Not as such.” Ruth had tutted, playful. “Think of it as a way to offset a poor woman’s sins, seeing as how I’ve acquired a shitload of ‘em.”

The Reverend liked her sincerity. Women like Ruth were pure of heart, and all of the earth’s evils lusted after that which they could corrupt. In a way, her genuineness reminded the nun of someone else. 

Alucard…. 

Lord above, and what was she to do about him?

Buildings with tens of eyes, the color of flickering yellow torchlight, looked down on her. _Not as golden as his_ , she thought. He was, perhaps, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. And a vampire had to be, yes? Demons enjoyed power through violent, brute strength; but, a demon wearing a human mask held a more ruinous power. They were temptation personified. Allure appealed to humans just as much, or more, than violence did.

But unlike his kin, Alucard wasn’t a demon, nor a monster, nor a beast.

His err was human.

She noticed it upon meeting; truly, what sort of vampire _disguised_ his threats as real? They were empty, as much as he was. Sorrow and grief acted as his guardian angels, reflecting from a golden stare. He lashed out like an animal abused, always irritated, always pointed, in fear the whip would hit again. Fear in him did not lie; no, it governed move and speech, heedlessly acting to come up with the right answer, to push, to pull, to freeze up completely. But, fear did not give bread to a stranger. Fear did not allow a dangerous woman inside. Fear was not generous - _Alucard_ was. And like the tavern owner, his purity was susceptible to those with the power to corrupt it. 

Reverend Mother pitied him. Assumedly, he was alone, and a human stranger, who’d accidentally injured him, remained all too near. When she was approached, he was cautious as a lamb; a tall, fit, otherworldly gorgeous lamb, but a lamb nonetheless. And she was no shepherd, but someone like him needed a kind hand to guide them and a presence he could trust. Sure, he’d threatened her life more than once; but, that day, when she told him to try and kill her…

Hidden beneath the cloak, a rosary secured to her belt proved comforting to hold. Each bead was ice on her skin, smooth to the touch. She followed it to the end. Slow was her thumb tracing its pendant - a blade shaped like a cross, freshly sharpened.

‘Go ahead and kill me’ versus ‘try to kill me’ were two very different promises. Defenseless, his shepherd was not. 

A smaller townhome occupied the corner where the street laded into an intersection. Blue wooden shingles decorated the roof like chipped teeth, rot betwixt each one. The exterior was tallied with cracks, many of which indicated the front door’s location. Following the door frame, the rain-warped metal glinted blue, then white, catching the nun’s coif as she approached. Beside the entrance, a wooden placard showed: Courier.

She jiggled the oblong handle till the door gave.

The room, a family-residence-turned-postmaster, was cramped with sacks and shipping crates. She spotted a book of orders on one stack, its contents filled with chicken scratch. At the back, a counter reached from left to right. It was a barrier between customer and smelly worker; birds - carrier pigeons, they were called, cooed and fluttered inside small cages curved out the wall. When last she came to send a letter, the nun witnessed their system at work. A compartment, squared at the rear of each cage, would open from the outside to allow leave for the corresponding pigeon. With the note tied round their back, they flew to another town and back. It was nothing short of ingenious.

Stood at the counter now were two couriers. Virgil Scarlat and Viktoria Scarlat, the owners of this establishment, were twins identical in hair color only. Pitch black tresses fell wavy on her and smooth on him. While she strapped on bifocals the proportion of two magnifying glasses glued together, sharp-cornered spectacles rested at the edge of his nose. The brother Scarlat crossed his arms and bandages showed partial on both his hands.

At the present, a gentleman was being served. Winged pauldrons squared his shoulders; expensive, no doubt. She noticed the top of his spine bowing out from his coat. In his grip was a half-opened letter. He seethed, “An _accident_? Is that what you’d have me believe?”

“These things do happen, my lord,” Virgil stated. 

Quietly, the nun shut the door. Viktoria shot her a tiny smile.

His pauldrons began to shake. “Do you take me for a fool?”

The sister Scarlat blinked owlishly. Suddenly, a hand jumped to cover her mouth. “Don’t answer that,” Virgil told her.

He sputtered a minute; then, the lord took off for the front door, red in the face. The nun stayed an unassuming gnat to the man with a creepily hollowed face. Pupils like icy pinpricks flashed at her a moment before the door slammed behind him.

“Ass. Twit ass. Lord of the saggy ass.” Viktoria, a grown woman of eighteen, blew a raspberry. “Sorry for the ass, miss nun.”

As reverent was her name, she curbed mentioning her agreeance with the title. However, she was human; the nun laughed a little. “A man provoked has stirred me similar, once or twice. You were kind to hold it in.”

“Sing not her praises, Reverend Mother. The woman’s insults range from childish to ‘I’ve reserved my seat in Hell,’” her brother said.

“Lies!”

A wooden box thudded onto the counter and Virgil began sifting through its leaflets. He seemed impassive, tossing letters to his twin. With her serving-plate eyes, she double-checked his decision and chucked them in a random direction. Just watching their dynamic was a treat to Reverend Mother. “A good morning to thee. I came to inquire about a letter from Brezoi.”

“And you as well. It should be in this pile.” He adjusted the glasses portending to slide off the tip of his nose. “Quite a ways north, Brezoi.”

“I’ve seed for your birds for the sake of reimbursement. Their trip is a long one, I know.”

“You’ll spoil them rotten, miss nun,” Viktoria giggled, “They loved what you brought last time.” She went to a white-feathered bird and coaxed him out of his cage. Lightly, she patted his head. He trilled and snuggled into her grasp. The fowl was presented to the nun as she said, “See? How chubby is the boy, Turnip!” She bounced the bird in her hand, deepening her voice to act the part of suave bird, “Turnip thanks you. Turnip would kiss you on the cheek if he was not prone to passing on grievous diseases, or pecking your cheeks out.”

“Hasn’t stopped him before.” The young man’s glare burned into his bandage wrappings.

Reverend Mother fetched from her satchel a pouch of seeds. In the first week at Belmont Hold, she’d stumbled upon a budding cluster of pumpkins. The pumpkin soup she concocted lasted two entire days, though it made her homesick. Sister Rhys was the cook among her sisters; if _she_ had made it from scratch, she would’ve measured each ingredient. She would’ve tasked a job to everyone so they’d feel included. She would’ve complimented the terrible way in which you cut an onion. Even at their new priory, a place sparse of additives, Sister Rhys’ water and potato stew never tasted bland. The nun roasted pumpkin seeds until her crying ceased.

Virgil exchanged with her a letter. Its seal of cerulean wax was broken. “Beg my pardons, Reverend. It appears your letter got the same treatment Lord Urca’s did.”

“Lord Urca?”

“Puts the ass in West Hyf- _ass_ -t.” Fluffing its feathers, the pigeon hopped back into its cage. The sister Scarlat’s pleated apron made for a towel as she wiped her hands. “That’s what had his balls twisted. Thought we were opening his post.”

“I explained to him that the nature which a letter travels is not a calm one. The elements affect more than just carrier pigeons. Our practice is reputable above all else, by my troth.”

“Besides,” Viktoria chimed in, “this town is made up of utter bores. Bet their letters are dull, too. Dull lives, dull families, dull appointments at the whorehouse. And a nun, all proper like you are? Talking about nun things? Pass.”

_Christ, please._

Reverend Mother made a conscious effort to appear neutral and not at all terrified that someone had read the contents of her letter. “I understand.”

Virgil, with his hair smoothed back like ebony fox-fur, intended her next delivery to be free of charge. Appreciated, but unnecessary, she told him. The twins paid no attention to her nervous ticks; the twitch in her cheek, the restlessness in her legs, and for that, she was grateful. Viktoria sent her off with a wave.

It was not until she was miles outside of town, safe from prying eyes, that she read the letter.  
  
  


_To our most holy, a blessing made to be God’s most formidable, Reverend Mother [Name],_

_Tis the nineteenth day of September in the year of our Lord 1476 and thy prayers are mightily welcomed. Our children feel the loss of their keepers, their matriarchs. Heartache afflicts thy sister just as well, thinking to when last we supped together, a family._

_But the merciful Lord knowest what is best for us. Thou art to do His will, living worthily and humbly in His sight; for that, I pray. Childrens, Daniel and Redimir and Alistar and Eve, as well as thy sister, beseech the King of glory, that he helps our sisters and our Reverend Mother make the right use of all the suffering He sends to Wallachia. We know not love such as His, but we pray comfort meets thee._

_Six of ours have arrived at their destination._

_Our seventh, Sister Stefania, reports from a village in the mountains, as one of the peoples’ babes appeared to be 'disturbed.' I pray thy forgiveness for such openness, as does Sister Stefania, but she **had** to perform the sacred rite. The infant could not be saved otherwise. I bid her extreme caution, worry not. We are all aware of what is at stake. _

_Glad are we to hear of the Warrior. Glad are we to hear the Devil has perished. Above all, glad are we to hear thou art uninjured. I pray thy news is good. So long as the Warrior accepts our plea and the plea of his people, we shall save a country from terror worse than what the Devil hath wrought._

_Yours in observance, and interim, Sister Christina_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the exposition filler, but alucard and reverend reader interactions return next chapter in full swing


	5. Law of Retaliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your eye shall not pity. It shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot." (Deuteronomy 19:21)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: existentialism & theological discussions regarding tragedy and the human condition

The trees had already begun to dress themselves in autumn. Sunlight fell slant through their canopies, a dense garb of scarlet and gold, and flattered crisp brown leaves freckling the ground. In the late afternoon of mid-October, scarcely any finches twittered, for fall ushered them to the warm southern climates. Where crickets cut short their chirping and the critters took to hibernating, all you were left with was the wind’s symphony. Branches downward bent, drumming against their trunks. Leaves chorused, reverberating a celestial song. From light breeze to burst of strength, nature conducted her concert in lonesome. 

The sound dwindled behind Alucard as he neared the ruins of Belmont Hold. 

Soon enough, he chanced upon the Reverend Mother. And how could he not? Dressed head to toe in the usual attire, the nun stuck out like a sore thumb in this ruinous waste of stonework. However, time had altered her as much as it did the forest. Splotches of grass and soil faded into the white neck coif. The pleats folded into her skirt had relaxed. Still, given the circumstances, he had to admit to her comeliness. 

Knelt beside the campfire, she regarded the two haunches of meat skewered on a spit-roast. Silver flashed from her wrist when she paused the spit’s rotation. “Alucard! A pleasure to see you.” 

The half-vampire hadn’t made an effort to sneak up on, per se, but considering he was the type to float through this mountain of loose rubble, he expected her to flinch at least. She hadn’t.

“How doth thee fare? And thy scar? The woman at the apothecary stand swore by her stuff.”

 _The ointment._ Splaying his palm, he said, “It seems to have healed well enough.” 

Hidden in a tumble of rocks, weeks ago now at least, he’d found a fold of white linen. The note attached had read in block print: **Procured from an apothecary. Apply ointment once per day to thy burn mark. If ineffective, consider a debt unpaid - RM.** To his surprise, the clay pot of cream actually worked. By the fourth day, the scar was a lick of pink, and by the eighth, a whisper of where the Reverend’s silver had kissed. He thought to try it on the wounds left by the twins; however, in trying to tend to them, the cicatrix coiled around his arms, his torso, his legs, were painful as they were old. In the end, his hand healed was reason enough to seek out the nun. He wasn’t sure whether to thank her or interrogate her; so, that day, he’d decided on both.

Something eased in her shoulders. Relief? “So it would seem.”

The silence stretched awkwardly between them.

There was a sudden chill and the young woman, shivering, turned to pilfer through her knapsack at the front of her tent. He noticed beside the campfire a wooden serving bowl; next to that, a hoop of clipped linen with a needle stuck into its peculiar embroidery. Black wings, like those of a fallen angel, jutted out in thick, crude lines. There were eight pairs of them - sixteen in all - encasing the circle. He found the design’s center to be the most bizarre thing of all. The winged creature did not possess a heart; instead, a large, hyper realistic eyeball succeeded it, peering at him through lashes curlier than rotting spider-legs.

Bundled in her cloak, the nun plucked the embroidery from the ground. A slightly dirty fingernail traced out the line work. “Apologies for the work in progress.” 

Alucard’s curiosity got the better of him, considering how fucking creepy it was. “What is it?” 

“A seraph,” she said, “an angel, champion at the throne of God. Perchance my work yields trade with a merchant, one peddling garments suitable for winter.”

“Instead of coin, you purchase goods with your cross-stitch?”

“ _Trade_.” As she rotated the spit-roast, she grinned. “For what’s fair is fair. Sometimes it’s not embroidery they want. Missus Galenne of the apothecary requested bishopwart in exchange for a pot of salve.”

Ah, yes. He remembered why he’ brought himself here, before that creepy piece distracted him.

“How did-” “If the-”

They paused before further interrupting one another.

Reverend Mother’s focus darted between him and the spit. “My apologies.”

“No, I….” What was his traitorous mouth doing? He hadn’t the faintest; instead, the awareness of red creeping past her veil held back his resolve. “I want to know what it is you were about to say.”

“Yes. Of course.” More an explanation for herself, it sounded. “I wished to know if the hour proves thee famished? And if so, might we sup together? There are two rabbit haunches here, and after the first, I am quite stuffed.”

Truth be told, he was feeling peckish. A poetry book had spent most of his day away; that, and working up the nerve to meet with her. Now, circumstance presented itself wrapped in a shiny, red, nun-accosting bow. 

With a flat hum, he accepted.

From her knapsack of endless things, she summoned two cups and another wooden plate, this one heavily chipped. He was to accept her dinner plate, the nicer of the two. Their food was served with a casket of wine. As she topped his cast iron mug with the dark red, his gape amused her, for she said, “Flies are bound to lay eggs in there.”

He closed his mouth immediately. “You don’t abstain?”

“Abstain from alcohol? In this day and age?” She scoffed, sarcastic. “Our vows do not forbid us from drinking, in a technical sense. Imbibing, however? The bishop might have felt differently on that.”

As their haunches cooled, steam billowing up from them like a greatship's sail, the Reverend began unwinding the silver round her arms. The flattened chains winked at him from the firelight, their rows unbroken from wrist to shoulder. _Look_ , bid her skin, bare and stamped with imprints left by the jewelry, _I am not afraid_. 

He was unsure how to address the display. Instead, he veered to, “You’ve said very little about your parish in Campulung.” 

Tightness set in her jaw, but sooner then was it gone, replaced by the calmness he’d come to associate her with. The metallic wrappings coiled into her bag like a cobra hypnotized by the soft lilt of a snake charmer’s flute.

“‘Tis an uneventful endeavor,” she mused, “and while the Holy Triune was home for a time, I cannot say I mourn the loss of it. What matters now are the sisters and their wellbeing.”

Together they ate in the quietude of evening’s sunset. He was glad for the red to wash down the bland meat and overcooked carrots; the nun, however, was more willing to savor the meal. Sitting across from him, she was mindful of her chewing and, after each bite, shielded the area with the back of her hand. Whenever she took a sip, he noticed to what degree the wine had stained her mouth. In fact, he couldn’t stop noticing how her half-parted lips were painted a deep plum. 

“Is it to your liking?”

He froze.

“The meal,” she specified. “Unfortunate to say, the group favored not the food I touched.”

“The sisters, you mean?”

Her answer was a nod. “Sister Rhys assumed the role of the house cook. Any hour of the day, her kitchen smelled of something divine. Soon as the dinner bell rang, the sisters and children would clamor to their seats at the table. So, if this-” She gestured to the half-eaten meat. “-were her doing, I’d be tempted to ask if she hit her head.” 

As she picked at the droopy vegetables, he imagined a gaggle of women passing around bowls of hot food, content to fill what little space they had with gossip and laughter. The custom, once an intimacy she knew daily, was now hundreds of miles away. _No_ , he realized, _not just some part of the routine - a family._ When last had she kissed them goodnight? When last had she told them ‘I love you?’ Had the children hugged her goodbye, begging her not to leave them? 

“I like it.”

As she dipped her head, a smile eased low on her lips. “......... thank you.”

Night drew before their plates were empty. Silence settled comfortably at that time, but as the cask unloaded another round, so too did the nun. A proper homily, as she said it was, for today was Sunday; and, to his credit, Alucard acted the part of church congregation: quiet, indifferent, and nodding in agreeance (when applicable). 

The Reverend Mother hailed from the Holy Triune Cathedral on the outskirts of Campulung - a uniquely exquisite building, she’d decided, with bubbling steeples dipped in gold and windows fashioned into huge, glassy paintings. Adjoining the church was its sister chapel, a decently-sized altar room meant for prayer, and its monastery, the housing curled around a cloister garden like an arm of stone. Since joining the nunnery at age twelve, she, like the garden’s flora and fauna, stayed within the convent. It wasn’t until Dracula’s army attacked that she ventured from the town. 

“Although we were warned of the vampire’s impending attack, our bishop made no move to vacate the premises.” Tipsy, she spat over her shoulder. “A year, we had. If he had listened, more of us might still be alive.”

Targoviste had reacted similarly. What was it about priests and clinging to what was left of their pretty churches until it became their ruin? “I understand why you hold such reservations about the church.”

A sigh escaped her. “Be that as it may, the church is capable of a great many things. Charity, education, sanctuary; somehow, they find reason to cast it all aside.”

“Why is it, then, you carry out their wishes?”

For a moment, his question made her brows furrow; but, as she realized he was referring to her quest, she went still, and the moonlight limned her features. The crescent floated overhead, its pale grin a rip of light, like a throat opened ear to ear, in the pitch-black sky. Stars hid in the murk of grey clouds. The forest became swollen with darkness and it seemed to inch closer and closer towards them. 

He was startled when she kicked one of the burning logs, but as the campfire hungrily snapped at the evening’s air, he was transfixed by the flames’ shadows, rising, carving out the hollows of her face. 

“A difficult question to answer,” she confessed.

The half-vampire tipped the cup past his lips, draining it completely. Somehow, he felt the need to be properly tipsy for this. 

“I should relay to thee, part of this task is my own doing. What happened to the Belmont family was…. Forgive me, O Lord, but the Archbishop was a foolish man. His pride cost us more than his ordained officials care to admit. Not that they can - dead men, and what have you. But while they experience peace in death, the remaining few are left to fix what his men hath wrought.” The skin over her knuckles grew taught as she squeezed the mug. For a cup cast in iron, it looked ready to shatter beneath her grip. “And for what? The Belmonts dealt with every demon under the sun. Who are they to ex-communicate the Belmont family just before the hour is most dire? Who are they to judge the Warrior of Wallachia?”

“That name. How is it you came by such a title for Trevor?” He prayed it was not the oaf’s own doing.

“Sister Mariana coined the term, soon as we heard the rumours. A month after the cathedral perished, a traveling merchant was the first to relay Belmont’s victory.”

 _Just_ Trevor Belmont. The urge to roll his eyes was fierce. 

“I pray I’ve not spoken in poor taste?” As if noticing his annoyance, she pretended the wine hadn’t loosened her usually polite choice of speech. 

“It is by no fault of your own. Trevor Belmont did slay Dracula,” he promised, “though, not alone.”

That caught her full attention.

“There were three in total. He was the vampire-hunter; or warrior, as you call it. A speaker magician, Sypha Belnades, traveled with him. They came to me in Gresit, not long after Dracula’s armies flooded the earth. I asked them to help me to kill my father. And so they did.”

“It took _three_ warriors to slay Dracula?”

Like a child far too invested in the story, she leaned towards him, eyes glittering in the firelight. He was taken aback at the sight of it. “Y-yes. Sypha was able to bring the castle right to us.”

“Genuinely!?” Nestled at the fabric of her lap, her hands were restless baby birds, fluttering and threatening to bounce around as she spoke, “A vampire-hunter, _and_ a magician! How wonderful. Well, that is to say, it is not wonderful how such events came to be, but truly, I am awestruck. They were fortunate to find thee in Gresit.” Then, she paused. “......But Dracula was….”

Their eyes met and, like before, she seemed to be looking directly into him. Too inebriated to recoil from such vulnerability, he could only let it happen. Her gaze didn’t…. prod, didn’t poke at him. It was like she was attempting to read him from the inside. A thought popped in his head, and strangely, he wondered if the nun was searching for his soul.

“Your father,” she said quietly, “You hated him too.”

Not that she could understand it. Not that she had even the slightest inkling to what his feelings were in regards to his father. _Is that what my eyes told you_ , he wondered, _how much_ _I hate dead old Dad?_ A few mirrors in the moving castle, those of which were smashed to bits, could have told her that. 

“I am speaking with ‘a foot in my mouth,’ as Sister Mariana puts it.” Unfortunate, then, she chose to continue. “Forgive me. I had not considered thy situation in its entirety, nor thy feelings on the matter. Not since I saw the broken elevator.”

Wait. What? “The pulley system leading to the hold’s underground library, you mean.”

“Precisely,” she declared, “I noticed a torn rope dangling from the hoist, where it might’ve once held a weight. As you worked the manual system, there, at the bottom of the hole, was the missing weight. A giant boulder.” Right she was. Months ago, he remembered, the cable had snapped and the rock tumbled down, though it did not break on impact. “And here I was, charge to this terrifyingly strong person, and he was toiling away at the pulley like it held something over him. You are not a weak man, Alucard. This I know. Yet, after I chanced upon thee, I prayed for thy health.” 

“An exertion most unnecessary,” he answered without hesitation. Nerves were getting the better of him, though he tried to ignore it.

“Why? You do nothing to hide the pain you feel. Sorrow eats away at you from the inside.”

_Stop, please._

_Stop._

Anxiety, untethered, crashed into him like a rolling wave, drowning his mind in uncertainty, and how long had the lift been in that condition and had other small tasks slipped his mind completely and God what was wrong with him, what had she gone looking for, what had she found, and, and-

 _Steel your nerves, foul beast._ Finally, his mind complied.

“Well, well. Naughty Reverend Mother.” With an air of faux confidence, his playful little ‘tsk, tsk, tsk’ arrested the nun. She blushed red as a maid. _Good_. “Avoiding my question, are you?”

“N-No. I beg thy pardons.” 

She tucked a stray hair away into her veil. The band was starch white beneath the moon. “An ex-communication can be annulled by the powers vested in the Archbishop’s subjacentes. It wasn’t until Bishop Ilias, the head of Holy Triune Cathedral, lay dying at the altar that he beseeched me to find the man known as Belmont, and allow his soul into heaven.”

“Yet you came with the intention to pay him. Not the church’s reparation, I hope.” Give Trevor a sack of coin and with it, he’d drink himself under the table. Perhaps that was her strategy? A drunken idiot might take her useless congratulations better than a man walking off his hangover. 

“The deposit came about on behalf of us.” Gesturing to her getup, he realized ‘us’ referred to the surviving nuns. “As a…. As a supplication, of sorts.”

Needlessly dancing around the bush, this nun was, and he was tired of it. He’d not come for a mindless chat. His questions, long since overdue, needed her answers. Now. “Speak plainly, if you would.”

To this, she quirked her brow. “In due time.”

“Speak. Plainly. Reverend.”

Half-expecting her to repeat herself more forcefully, he nearly jumped when her head shot up and the movement emitted a sharp noise, like her neck snapping in half. The air around her grew still; lifeless, almost, as her focus shifted to the background, and while turning to follow her attention, Alucard almost regretted being so forward. 

In the dimness, the trees were like a ring of decaying corpses bloated with lakewater, too large and foreboding, and she studied each one methodically, like the greying trunks twisted with obscurity presented themselves for her consideration. The wind picked up, and the creaking tree branches wrenched forward, their gangly, wooden fingers outstretched. The nun whimpered quietly, as though she were muttering under her breath. 

In all that time, he did not see her blink.

“Tell me.” When again she looked at him, her eyes were wide with fear. “Dost thou believe in evil?”

Willing his voice not to falter, he said, “In what sense?”

She shook her head. “‘Tis not a philosophical debate I pose. There is good, and there is evil. Like black and white, either you see it for what it is, or you don’t. I did not presume it to be real, once. God; the perfect, the all-knowing, the all-powerful - surely He would not allow His followers to be touched by something worse than sin. Everything here, He created. Why, then, would He ever strive to create true evil?”

Her laugh was dry. “You must find it foolish, yes? Harboring so much faith in an enigma. The orphans would ask me the difficult questions - why does He allow His children to suffer, and the like- and thus came the commonplace, ‘We are not meant to understand why the world acts as it does. God’s will is incomprehensible.’ What a favor ignorance was to me then.

“Regardless,” she went on, “the knowledge of such things hits all of us eventually, and it is earth-shattering. Good people die in the most gruesome ways imaginable. Families wither away into dust and nothingness. Childhood homes burn to the ground, villains lie with the innocent under false pretenses, and our friends either betray us, or live on in our memory, gone too soon. Evil, you see, is part of God’s plan. He knows His children suffer. And yet He watches all the same.”

The dead leaves and twigs cracked underneath her boots as she summoned a familiar book from her knapsack, and he could see just how much time had worn the fraying needlepoint. Baby Jesus and the wise men were faceless husks wrapped in brown twine. Lambs pranced around the cover with their frazzled limbs coiling inward. Only the Virgin Mary appeared untouched, as she looked upon him with beady dots of black yarn. Opening the bible, Reverend Mother flipped through the pages before she settled on one with her pointer finger and recited, “‘But if any damage follows, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, and lash for lash.’”

The words hung in the air, thick as the evening’s gloom. Though Alucard could not identify which book the passage derived from, he understood its intent well enough. 

“Retribution.” She scanned over the page. “The Lord’s sanctioned violence. For all the naiveté I possessed, I could discern that much. The world turns against us, the world He hath created, and rather than leaving His children to ponder, He acknowledges the rage and sorrow spiraling out of us. When confronted with evil, we are not meant to pray silently, or sit by, hoping the situation improves. We are meant to take our dues.”

_And what is it you are due, Reverend Mother?_

Again, the old testament bid her say, “‘If thou shalt afflict the blameless in any way and they cry at all to Me, I will surely hear their cry; And My wrath shall burn; I will kill you with the sword, and thy wives shall be widows and thy children fatherless.’” Again, she allowed the teaching to linger. The side of her lip curled only just. “Heh. Is it not you, O Lord, who hath created affliction?” 

Then, without warning, she was on the move. 

The hemline of the nun’s habit flirted with the campfire’s smoke as she glided around it, silent as a shadow, nearing her prey at the other side. Had the liquor emboldened her, or was this part of the game? He couldn’t decide on a one as the woman bound in pitch loomed over him. It was like the day they’d first met, only this time, she acted the part of monster, and he, the human recoiling beneath her. 

“The Lord knoweth loss and destruction and evil, because He created them. But He does not love them. No…. no, that is why He sends His wrath to burn them. To kill with the sword. To-” there was heat in her words and Alucard could feel it fanning against his cheeks, “-eradicate evil by any means necessary. Don’t you see, Alucard? The reason I must be here - do you understand it now?” _No_ , he wanted to scream, but her face was far too close for coherent thought, wine still warm on her breath, and suddenly, he imagined how sweet the wine would taste on her skin. It wouldn’t be difficult to lean up into her from this position. He remembered where the drink had stained her lips. Where it dipped a little further past them.

Alucard was startled when a pair of hands ghosted the sides of his jaw. “You’re cold as death,” he whispered.

“Something wicked this way comes, an evil far greater than Dracula. And only those who carry out the Lord God’s wrath can stop it.” Ever-so-gently, Reverend Mother’s fingertips brushed a line from forehead to chin, and then straight across, left cheek to right cheek. He felt the pad of her thumb drag over his lower lip.

Slow.

Deliberate.

He couldn’t move.

“I pray for the safety of His warriors. Trevor Belmont. Sypha Belnades. Alucard. And… the rest.” Her hands dropped from his face.

It shocked him, the loss of touch. Yet he was further horrified by his reaction; or, the lack thereof. What sort of spell had she put him under? And why did he feel like he’d taken a fever? “I don’t understand.” His voice came out surprisingly hoarse.

She withdrew from him. Moonlight illuminated the nun in a pale glowing halo. Behind her, the campfire raged like an inferno, threatening to swallow her up should she move back any further. The somber look on her face, however, was that of a woman prepared to walk through brimstone. “I am here so that the warriors might save Wallachia once more. I am here because the rest of us are dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, i won’t have to stare at this dialogue anymore. 
> 
> next chapter is less monologue-heavy i promise


	6. Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon typical violence

_“I’ll stop once you’ve answered the question.”_

_“I am drunk, Alucard, and so are you.”_

_“Then tell me. What are you running from?”_

_“I… I do not know.”_

Reverend Mother had lied. 

_“Do you take me for a fool?”_

_“Please, I beg thee stay, the hour is late and we-”_

_“-have nothing left to discuss. As you’ve made it so very clear.”_

It was not by choice that she be unforthcoming. 

Soon, he would understand everything. 

Soon.

_“Wait!”_

_“And for how long, Reverend? Days? Weeks? Surely not six months. You will have frozen to death, or starved by then.”_

The memory of his venom made her wince.

Here, in the greenwood, on the twisting pathway beaten into two lines of dirt, the nun should have been enjoying her morning stroll. Instead, Reverend Mother wished only to forget. Even after she’d gathered the clothes that needed washing in a basket and gone into the deepest part of the forest, the shame of last night followed like a stray hound, nipping her ankles just to remind her of its presence. 

_He does not trust me. This I know. But a woman, a nun, a heretic, must be cautious just as well. Please, Alucard. Wait. Our truths shall be revealed in time._

Past the fallen greatwood singed with sky-fury, she came upon the growing mass of vines and briar curled inward, creating a dome of natural greenery. Its walls were deep with huge, whorling thorns. Though a heaviness weighed on her bones, it was not enough to deter her. Careful as she was to sidle into the thicket, briar clawed at her cheeks until they were scratched and bloodied. Pain stopped her thoughts from wandering, at least, and she was grateful for that. 

Inside was a paradise she’d seen only once before. The hidden grove, touched by thin streams of light, was straight out of a children’s storybook, picturesque as ever. The air smelled of damp earth and moss, of budding lilacs and wild onions, of dried sap and bird nests. A shimmering lagoon beckoned her lay. Centered on its islet, a lone tree ripe with apples made her mouth water. Would reprieve find her in this place? Christ, she hoped so.

Plopping her basket onto the pool bank, she peered into the water. Worry, fear, hunger - they etched the lines in her forehead and around her mouth. With the cold season fast approaching, the fishing geir enticed fewer and fewer trout, and fresh bilberries were becoming a rarity. Either she’d need to learn the ways of hunting, or take up semi-permanent residence in West Hyfast.

Sister Mariana had warned her of this, back at the priory. “Pray this Belmont character ‘sn’t half as cruel as winter,” the red-head muttered as she whetted her blade, “‘r else he’ll be hearing from me.” 

“While I do appreciate it, dear sister, the warrior will be of no use to us dead,” Reverend Mother chided, yet lightly. She had to be hopeful. Before the seven nuns left for their individual townships, weapons had to be sharpened, fighting techniques had to be disciplined, supplies had to be gathered, protection had to be put in place for Sister Christina and the children. Doubt had its place in them all, but their attention was on the endless busy work. “Mariana.” She placed a hand on the sitting nun’s shoulder. “We shall see this through to the end. I promise thee, everyone will be alright.”

That got a laugh out of the other nun. “Piss off. ‘Tis you we’re most anxious for.” She placed her own hand atop the Reverend’s, and squeezed. “Traveling to who knows where in search of the Belmont Hold. Promise me this, at least. Our most holy Reverend Mother, the Lady Abbess of the shitshow that is her nunnery, will return to us.”

 _Thou shalt return to death sooner_ , the stagnant reflection of the Reverend taunted, her lips chapped and unmoving. 

Shrugging off her veil, she tugged at the pinky-sized knot around her neck. The coif slid from her face. Pocked scars left by adolescent disease peppered her skin. Touching each blemish with the tip of her finger, she realized that, with her veil on, they were hardly noticeable. Oil clung to her boyish mop of hair like lard on fried animal skin. Had the Holy Triune not forbid it, the nuns might’ve had beautiful heads of hair. Like Alucard’s, she thought. Truth be told, the idea of brushing her fingers through his locks had appealed to her. Not that she’d say so, of course; after last night’s argument (wherein he stormed off into the night), there’d be no cause to. 

They’d just…. gotten swept up in the intensity of the conversation, right? She drank too heavily, and he dropped on her two other warriors, and she tried to warn him about a coming danger without explicitly stating its presence, and he…. She remembered the fear, apparent as a knife bound in the golden silk of his stare. Her words had done that to him. Why, then, she decided to offer a prayer, to **touch** him without expressed permission, was beyond her. Humiliation weighed upon the Reverend Mother long after she’d woken up. What was wrong with her? Why had she allowed this to happen?

“Am I thy chosen, O Lord?” she posed aloud. The question was not an unfamiliar one to her, especially since the night previous. “Reverend Mother looks after her wards and cares for them. She is in service to the helpless, the poor, the unprotected. With Thy strength, her love knows no bounds, and she is glad for that. Always glad.” 

Stones jutting out of the lagoon started to blur together the longer she looked at them. “Lend thy judgement, for I do not feel worthy. It pains me that I cannot be with my sisters. If they’re in danger, the news will come too late, and if the warriors aren’t convinced of our cause, I’ll have failed them already. I know, Thy strength will guide us. But I feel as though I’ve been alone for so long. I…..” She thought of Alucard, absolutely livid with her. He was an ally, a warrior, and he hated her. She made him hate her. “I’m afraid I’ve failed them already.”

_Lord, I am afraid. I am going to die before I see my sisters on this mortal plane. I am going to die before I find ser Trevor fucking Belmont._

The wind sighed as if to answer her, and silently, she wept.

She cried until the tears dried and flaked off her cheeks, until her throat ached and her head pounded. Cupping both hands, the nun scooped a bit of stillwater. The rippling surface’s image of a puffy-eyed nun followed along, drinking her own water, though nonexistent. It tasted astringent with minerals of the earth. She splashed more water on herself and it cooled the ugly-cry splotches bunched around her neck. 

Still, she looked a mess.

Reverend Mother stripped to the skin. After what felt like a lifetime inside the nunnery, getting out of the habit was no longer a chore. The rosary and silver chains settled flat atop the soiled habits in the basket. Before dipping her toes into the water, out of habit, she reached for the rosary. While it could serve as a necklace, she thought the lagoon might rust the blade, and decided against the notion of adorning it.

She took a moment to adjust to the cold, but the pool quickly consumed her, dulling the tension held in her back and caressing her shoulders down into a relaxed position. Once she was brave enough to do so, the Reverend dove into the center’s depths. The sunlight, a bleary glow in this underwater world, gave way to a blanket of floating weeds, green as emeralds, stuck to the floor. As she swam, she realized the sand was glittering with pebbles and other unidentifiable shinies. Perhaps there were trinkets lost to the lagoon floor? At last she returned for air and the water sloshed about her. 

Breathing deep, she counted the fill of her lungs. 

One.

Two.

Three.

Although her problems didn’t cease to exist, although she’d have to step back into reality, although she worried for the sisters, for the children, for Alucard, for Wallachia - she exhaled, loud. 

One.

Two.

Three.

Just this moment was enough. For now, everything was how it needed to be.

She focused on running water through her hair, how her nails felt on her scalp. As Reverend Mother scrubbed the grime off, a song drifted in her head, as monotony was like to do. It was a favorite of hers, one sung for eulogies by the Holy Triune choir; she was happy to still remember it after all of this time. And she was alone, wasn’t she? It might help her feel better.

Softly, then, she started to sing.

‘Little Lamb who made thee?   
Dost thou know who made thee?  
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.   
By the stream & o'er the mead;  
Gave thee clothing of delight,  
Softest clothing wooly bright;  
Gave thee such a tender voice,  
Little Lamb who made thee?  
Dost thou know who made thee?’

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,  
Little Lamb I'll tell thee.  
He is called by thy name,  
For he calls himself a Lamb:   
He is meek & he is mild,   
He became a little child: 

I a child & thou a lamb,   
We are called by his name.  
Little Lamb God bless thee.   
Little Lamb God bless thee.’

  
Suddenly, out of the dark thicket came a gravely inhuman noise. It was hollow, like the pained moan of a man with too many holes in his throat. Reverend Mother froze.

One second she was stock still, and the next, she was inhaling buckets of freshwater, flailing against a myriad of limbs attempting to wrap around her. What felt like thousands of tiny sewing needles raked down the meat of her leg and the current swallowed her scream. Her own rush was a clumsy undertaking as she swung her elbow behind her. A hit! The slime-covered arms recoiled, granting her the opportunity to barrel out of the water. The rosary, her mind screamed as she part-ran, part-swam to shore, I have to get to it.

And by the grace of God, she scrambled onto the bank and whipped around with the holy blade pointed towards the attacker.

The demon was half the size of the lagoon. Blood thicker than tar oozed from one sickly, pale-green eye smack dab in the middle of its bulbous torso. From the water extended two, three, four, **five** limbs covered in uneven rows of teeth. Most were a nasty shade of yellow; others looked almost human. It made no difference as the giant arms propelled the beast towards her.

“To thee, O God, I call and speak.” 

The nun dug her heel into the soil.

“Turn not Thy face away from me.”

A hellish roar from the beast shook the draped canopy of bramble. _CRACK_ , went the ceiling.

“Withdraw not Thy consolation, lest my soul become an adversary.”

She felt the spray of water as the monster closed in on its prey

“Allow me, O Lord, to do Thy will.”

She drove her blade into the first tentacle to reach her, and the effect was instantaneous. Grey flesh bubbled and erupted like magma. With a quarter of its limb gone, the demon screeched. Reverend Mother, showered in hot, sinewy clots of fat and muscle, was unphased. The next limb aimed to strike her side. Again, where the crucifix stabbed, the area set off like an explosive. 

Unexpectedly, a tentacle whipped around her feet and pulled. Her skull collided with the ground and an excruciating pain bolted down her spine. She tried in vain to jab near her ankles. In response, the thing’s knife-edged teeth sank further into her. Were her ears not ringing, the Reverend might’ve heard herself cry out. 

It dragged her, unhurried, towards the shallow edge of the lagoon. Perchance the demon meant to taunt her; or, as the prey inched closer to its gaping maw, drool slinking off the fangs crowded together, perchance it meant to savor her fear. There was no escape.

A deep instinct kicked in. “Steel thyself,” came the decree learned from mentors long ago, their collective voices disembodied in the haze of her mind, “Pain is nigh forever. Know what you are and say it.” By saying it, you give it power; by giving it power, you cannot stop it. This was what she’d learned, what she’d taught the other nuns to bring them closer to God’s light and purpose. She could not think about her exposed flesh scraping against the ground. She could not break out in a panic. She could not be afraid.

She just had to endure.

When, at the last moment, the foul-smelling breath puffed warm on her chest, Reverend Mother looked daggers at the demon spawned from hell and shouted, “Strengthen the Exorcists by Thy power, O Lord. Strengthen ME.” The rosary sailed into the air, blade first, and hit the eyeball dead center. She heard clear the monster’s wail as it died.

The blast sent her flying. Gore curtained the sky in red. Blood rained down, slapping the earth. 

The nun realized, belatedly, something broke her fall, something warm, and bulky. Were she not blinking through dust and cloud, she’d be hard pressed to know what in the infernal hell just grunted; but, she was, and honestly, she was not praying for an encore performance. If this request was to be said aloud, however, she was shit out of luck. Her body refused to move.

Wait. Was that something nudging her hand?

Painful as it was to turn her head, she made out the lengthy snout of an animal. A dog, perhaps? It sniffed her, and no, it was a wolf, an actual greatwolf, his coat pure as the whitest snowfall. Slits of black with golden irises met her gaze. _He looks to be intelligent._ Again, his wet nose grazed her open palm. A sound, like soft whimpering, made her heart sink. Had he been injured? Without thinking, she reached for him and bit back a yell when her nerves lit up with liquid fire. Reverend Mother found her voice, “M-my thanks….”

The white wolf growled. He did not want her to speak, so it seemed. 

He became interested in what bound her ankles together. The tentacle, though partially disintegrated where the arm detached from its body, hadn’t let go. When the wild animal went to prod it, she felt the teeth scraping within her and gasped. He whimpered at that and gave her hand a gentle lick. It was strange to her how anxious this wolf acted; nonetheless, she fought against the pain to bid him near, stroking the point of his snout so he might be comforted.

Blackness prickled the edge of her vision. She was going to faint. Her wounds were deep, and without a miracle, death was assured. Petting her companion’s soft fur, Reverend Mother smiled. “There...is a man….” She coughed and tasted blood. “A castle…. Find him…. I…. have to apologize….” Oblivion stole from her the rest of the words, but she didn’t mind. 

At least she’d not die crying. At least she’d not be alone. 

As she eased into unconsciousness, she could have sworn she heard Alucard calling out to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nun's song is the lamb by william blake, and the version i had in mind is sung by the tenebrae choir [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-mSmEfLmZc]


	7. Terror on Every Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For I will restore health to you, and your wounds I will heal, declares the Lord, because they have called you an outcast.” (Jeremiah 30:17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Descriptive body horror

The nun laid motionless in his arms. 

She was swathed in an oversized black coat soaked in blood. _Her_ blood. 

Alucard felt it warm on his forearm, where her knees dangled over, where a jagged shaft bent out of her skin, though he’d not dare uncover the wound and revisit it. Unlike her God, Alucard was not so keen to set her at death’s door. _Though she is knocking_ , the bleak trickle of crimson down her chin reminded him. And behind him, from within the lagoon stained black, the cephalopodic monster began to twitch.

The dhampir burst through the curtain of bramblethorns in a rush, cradling the woman tight against his chest. He had to remember humans were fragile things; if her head was allowed to bob around, her neck would surely break. Trees streaked past carrion red. Aggrieved by this sudden ferocity, the wind howled and rapped him, icy polite, with spatters of morning dew that bit into his cheeks. But hindrances did not slow the beast. 

Castle Dracula came boiling over the horizon where heavy clouds circled its spires like buzzards. He saw a blanket of mist rolling towards the front steps. Although it dissipated as he marched forward, its legion of wraithlike hands seemed to reach past his pant leg, for the Reverend Mother. The blonde kicked open the wrought iron doors of the castle impatiently. 

A bitter draft of air greeted them. The nun shivered; he could hear the woman straining to breathe. At the very least, she was not comatose. Not completely.

Did that comfort him? Even after stumbling upon the scene of a nun locked in a vicious battle, he’d witnessed her face a fatal explosion head on; and then, that fall. She’d tumbled from the heavens. Honestly, if the former hadn’t killed the human, the latter definitely should have.

_So what are you, Reverend Mother, if not human?_

Quickly, he followed the length of the left-most hallway to its end, where an iron-studded door ushered him inside. 

The ground floor laboratory was furnished in a comforting light. Technically it was a repository (what with the walls buried under rows and rows of old books), but Dracula had refit the place once upon a time so it might have served as Lisa’s testing grounds. It had worked almost a little too well. Sometimes, unless the littlest Tepes politely knocked to call her up to dinner, his mother would get totally lost in her research. “Would you like to see what your mother is working on?” she’d ask, her excitement positively infectious, and she’d lead him through the room’s succession of trestle tables. Most were littered with medical textbooks and writings. Others, piled high with glassware. “See, in this dish? Yes, it _does_ smell very good. It’s oil extracted from laurel leaves. This other one here, is boiled oxbone. And here, the petals of a mandragora flower. I want to test and see how they work as antitoxins. Hopefully, they can be used to help people who are sick, so they might feel better. Oh, and here….” On and on she’d go, with Alucard happy to act as her audience, or even _helper_. 

But those memories felt like ghosts to him now. Various beakers and flasks were brown with dust. At least his mother’s medical equipment was still being put to good use.

An empty trestle table would have to do, he decided. The young vampire carefully nudged the unconscious nun out of his arms till she was flush against the table. Now, the moment of truth. Uncovering the fabric overtop, he took note of her stomach overrun with violet splotches. The bruises were twice the size of his fist. Her arms were much the same, though stripes of veins and muscle had melted through the burnt sections of flesh. Bandage dressings would take care of that. 

It wasn’t until the coat uncovered her lower half that Alucard went slack jawed. 

What looked to be putrid-green, bubbling sausage links sank into her ankles. Immediately he wrenched the monstrous tentacle off of her and a loud wet _SPLAT_ hit the ground. It was…. the appendage was slick with some kind of acidic perspiration. It had to be, for a handful of its rotted teeth cleaved to what was left of the Reverend Mother. 

Both her shins were grey as liquid mercury. Thick sheets of skin peeled down her legs like white stockings, with one stuck to the bottom of a patchy row of toes, where the right foot was a mangled bed of gore and bones. Her left foot, however, was gone completely. 

Christ.

It had **eaten through her**.

Urgency pulled like a leash through the zigzag of tables. A cauterizer, surgical blades, gauze, some candlesticks, wooden blocks, twine, a jar of wine and vinegar. The medical provisions weighed heavy in his arms, heavier than they had ever been before. Last came the bone saw, beaming at him with jagged teeth. It was the only tool he reached for hesitantly. He set the tools before him for a moment to splash his hands with disinfectant.

With a magical incantation, the candle wicks bowed and blackened, subject to blue flames. He set the candles aside and gingerly situated the nun’s left ankle to rest upon the wooden block, wrapping the area tight with twine. Bones from her hindfoot looked to be partially intact; but, she could not hobble around on a protruding heel. Fire licked the bone saw until its smile was red as magma - ready, and hungry. It made a terrible crunch biting into her. Luckily (if such a thing could be considered luck), the acid had softened the osseous matter considerably. 

The rounded tip of the cauterizer took to heat more quickly. One push into the open wound was met with a burst of steam, though he directed the metal about the edges of the stump, and did not cease until the raw muscle quit hissing. He could not afford to dawdle - the last thing he needed was for Reverend Mother to bleed out on this table. From his pocket he procured the salve gifted to him by the nun and lathered it onto the burnt flesh. 

Alucard plunked the bandages into the jar of wine and vinegar until the roll was properly damp. If the antiseptic worked as intended, it’d fend off a chance of infection. Winding the bandage dressings up her calf, the odor of necrotic tissue was masked with something equally as sour. It fit snugly, though not _too_ snug. Immediately thereafter, her right arm underwent the treatment; then, the left. 

There was a reason the most abhorrent injury had been saved for last. The right foot was in absolute ribbons. 

_Do I tempt an infection by stitching it up? If the rot worsened, she would lose more than just another foot, and amputating it now might fare better for her health. It would mean being bound to a chair. Though, such a fate proves to be more desirable than sickness._

_But, if it can be saved, would I be able to forgive myself for exacting that sort of life unto her?_

_Would she?_

Reverend Mother, who had broken fast with him; she, who had shown nothing but kindness. The woman who had hidden a gift among the rocks so as not to wander too close to Castle Dracula, as he’d so viciously commanded her to. He chanced a look at her. Knitted brows and chapped lips, brown with blood, replaced her usual smile, the one he knew to be so tender and so sweet. After such foul treatment on his behalf, how, _how_ could she lay dying and apologize to _him_? Sweat beaded her forehead, and Alucard smoothed a hand over her brow. 

Since the beginning, the holy woman had refused to condemn him. When the monster bared his fangs, the nun held fast with the patience of a saint. She’d said the vampire was kind-hearted. 

She made Alucard feel human.

_Do not give up on me just yet, Reverend Mother. Please._

Bundled up in the kit of surgical blades were spools of tralucent wire spun from catsgut and four hooked needles. Pinching with his thumb and pointer, he singled out the one with the sharpest prick. He doused the needle in antiseptic before rolling its spine over the open flame. The wire threaded into the narrow eye with ease. With that, preparations were complete. _Stalling, more like_ , an irritant thought arose. 

Another wooden block had to be placed beneath the affected limb. Again, the twine held her ankle in place. There was nothing left to be done except gather the skin hanging off the superficial part of her foot, and begin. It felt like fastening two hunks of uncooked game, stretched too thin beneath his fingertips. 

With a faint ‘ _shhhhlink_ ,’ the needle slipped into her. 

And then the Reverend Mother let out an ear-piercing scream.

Surgical instruments clattered to the ground, glass shattering on impact, as her arms flailed about wildly. Alucard had not a moment to act before she was on him. Both hands clamped onto his wrist, lifting his forearms a tick before rushing to snap it in half with her knee. With a pained gasp, he wrenched his limb from her. If the vampire lacked unnatural speed and strength, surely, she would have succeeded. 

Unoffended by the heavy trauma done to her physical body, the woman was near animalistic as she surged forward to attack. He seized her shoulders. “Stop! Reverend Mo-” A sharp pang cut short his voice, as the nun dug her fingers beneath the skin of his bicep. Her eyes were wide, bloodthirsty. Unrecognizable.

With a muttered apology, Alucard slammed her onto her back. She howled and drove her blunt nails further into him. Instinct debarred him from entertaining this further, because humans could not be trusted and they would fight tooth and nail just to watch him suffer, he’d done this once before, it would be easy to call upon the sword, to end this, to end her; but, he did not. 

“ENOUGH!” he roared, “Remember who you are, Reverend Mother, who I am!”

For a moment, the two were deathly still, filling the space between them with hot puffs of breath.

Finally, she started to blink, as if returning to herself. Words broke on her lips like cracked clay, “A….Alu..card..?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Whh...ere....is…”

“Castle Dracula. You were gravely injured. Do you have any memory of the attack?”

Sluggishly, the nun shook her head ‘no.’

“One of the hellspawns attacked you from within the forest. You were brought here before the injuries you sustained wor-”

“Mmmn….” A sound of protest interrupted him. “No…No, not…..Where is...my rosary?”

The....? _Are you mad, woman?_

Tears formed at the crinkle of her eye. “Alucard...I’m sorry….Forgive me….I…”

“Hush,” he said quietly. A tear strayed and he wiped it from her cheek. “There is nothing for you to apologize for. Please, rest.”

At the far end of the repository was an ornate rosewood cupboard mounted to the wall, its tapered shelves teeming with little glass vials. In the blink of an eye, Alucard was there and back. He offered her a vial clouded with rust-coloured liquid. The hand-written label marked it as ‘Bark of Mandrake.’

“For the pain.” He awaited the nod of approval before bringing its ridge to her lips. Three drips, onto the tongue. “Sleep will take you soon enough.”

“Please…” she tried again, “..the rosary….please, will you find it? I...I can’t….”

Again, he shushed her. As her gaze rolled to the back of her skull, he promised, “Sleep. And when you wake, you shall have it once more.”

  
  


-

  
  


Come late afternoon, the white great wolf was bounding through the greenwood once more. 

Traveling through the woods in this form seemed innate. A man was always at the mercy of Dame Nature. He cursed the frigid rainstorms, he set a match to her trees, he fell prey to the living things within her wood, he pestered her come crop season. The wolf, however? Mother Nature was a friend to all animals, but especially the wolf. He was the forests’ hunter, the legendary fright who kept her assailants at bay. To a wolf, the wildwood was home. Wherever the undergrowth meant to trip him, wherever splintery rocks hid in the moss, wherever there was the odd, intoxicating, sickly-sweet aroma of virgin blood, it hid not from the great wolf.

Though, his mind was a bit distracted.

God, he’d done it. He’d actually done it! Alucard had sewn her foot back together. Its usefulness in the near future was open to doubt; but, a scar was not a wound. Some part of him thought his mother would have been proud of the sutures he’d managed to pull off. At the very least, the nun was alive - unconscious, but still breathing. Lisa taught her pupils well, after all. Now, all that was left to do was to make sure her wounds healed; and, fetch her precious belongings.

And therein lay the problem. 

Well, perhaps that phrasing was a touch dramatic. It was just, this rosary business made no sense. The existence of such a particular holy symbol was not lost on him. First employed in Christian monasticism, the rosary was adopted by the Catholics in the 13th century, and remained an iconic insignia unto them. Why the Reverend Mother possessed that sort of paraphernalia, he could not say. Was it tucked away into her belongings at the lagoon’s bank? If so, why hadn’t she asked him to retrieve the rest of her belongings? What was so special about this rosary?

Near the lagoon, the air smelled of bitter, decomposing body parts. It wafted out of the Alucard-shaped hole in the thorny wall of bramblewood, where the great wolf padded along and into the secret marsh.

The sunlight, receding westward, neglected a majority of the grove. Shadows reveled in the black-as-tar pond water overflowing with dead monster bits. 

A slant of light illuminated the bank all of a sudden. Alucard could see the familiar knapsack stuffed to the brim with white and black fabrics. He made his way towards it with a huff.

Without warning, a blue glow surrounded the lagoon. The light emanated from a long-tipped dagger resembling a cross. An old woman with reddish-brown skin, hunched over the bag and wearing far too many rings, pointed the weaponized rosary at him. 

Alucard growled something fierce, deep and low in his chest.

The old woman cackled. “Looking for something, pup?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a couple of things - first, i made a tumblr [saidith.tumblr.com]. this chapter was KIND of a lot, in terms of the content warning that was listed. if for any reason you don't feel comfortable leaving a comment about it, i still want your feelings to be taken into consideration, and having an inbox where you can message me anonymously will help to do that (i hope). please please please, if you need me to include extra content warnings, or have any suggestions for how to better advertise my content warnings in the future, understand that i want to create an environment that is as safe as possible for everyone so we can all have fun reading fanfics!  
> also, i made a playlist for this fic [https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7iJWyy3MHrIpkFdkixtEMd?si=OT5KyyLiRby4RUEUrg5XDg]. i usually make playlists for each fic just to get an idea of the general tone, but i thought i might share it with y'all so you can take a peek at what sort of things i listen to before i start writing this particular piece!
> 
> thank you all again for leaving such lovely comments <3 i can't tell you how happy it makes me when people share with me their thoughts and feelings about what's going on, or what's going to happen, because all in all, this story was made with your enjoyment in mind.


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